The Scent of Murder (5 page)

‘Question her at the station, then let her go. We have no proof that she’s involved.’ Pike gave the constable a sharp look and spoke quietly but forcefully. ‘And no rough stuff — clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the constable sulked.

From outside, Sergeant Gibbs tapped on the window. Pike motioned to him to join them. Voices and the sounds of doors opening and closing reached them from the hallway. Wilde left the room to pacify the alarmed residents.

Pike hauled the man onto the bed, ripped up a pillowcase and bound his gushing foot. Beneath the bed covers the whimpering woman struggled into her nightdress.

Gibbs recited the charge: ‘Harold Peter Wheeler, in the name of the King, I arrest you for the murder of Police Inspector Bernard Phipps, as well as on suspicion of smuggling contraband goods into this country from across the Channel.’

‘What rot! I ain’t done nuffin’, I ain’t shot no one!’ Wheeler cried.

Pike smiled to himself. He had released very few details of the death to the newspapers. Few, other than the murderer, knew exactly how Inspector Phipps had met his end.

He took out his fob. ‘Well done, men. Good result. Can I leave the rest to you, Sergeant? Don’t forget to label his gun and oh, yes, dig the bullet from the plaster, will you?’

‘Why should we do that, sir? If you don’t mind my saying,’ Sergeant Gibbs asked.

‘You do so because I am telling you to do so. Is that clear?’ said Pike, his patience beginning to wear thin.

The sergeant grimaced. ‘Yes, Chief Inspector.’ He coughed into his hand. ‘And we would be honoured, sir, if you could join us at the Seven Seagulls for a small celebration in, say, an hour or so?’

The sergeant did not sound honoured; the look on his face suggested he had just tasted a bad oyster. The Hastings constabulary clearly had no desire for the company of a Scotland Yard interloper. Not that it was anything new; he was just as unpopular with the men in London, because he had never walked the beat, having entered the force with officer status. But he wasn’t paid to be popular.

‘Thank you, no,’ he said. The sergeant’s shoulders dropped with relief. ‘Do you know if the railway station’s telegram office is still open?’ Pike asked. He should have thought of trying the railway station earlier.

‘Should be. But you could always use the one at the police station, sir.’

Pike disregarded the offer. The last thing he wanted was the local police knowing his private business. He dug his hand into the pocket of his thick black coat and dropped a generous number of coins into the sergeant’s palm. ‘Have a good time on me.’

He did not linger to enjoy the sergeant’s look of embarrassed surprise, but rushed from the house, praying the railway office would indeed still be open.

CHAPTER FOUR

Strangely enough, the unpleasantries of the previous night’s dinner, followed by Tristram’s startling revelations in the garden, had done nothing to diminish Florence’s excitement for her first hunt. She had decided to forgive Sir Desmond and Mr Montague for the duration, even admiring the military precision with which the two men, as Master of Hounds and Kennel Man–Whipper-In respectively, had organised the proceedings. Her welfare was in their hands, after all.

Sir Desmond had taken great pains to see that she was safely mounted, berating the elderly groom, Philips, for initially leading her to Warrior, a horse Sir Desmond said was far too fizzy for a beginner. Tristram accepted the mount in her place, sitting deep in the saddle as the stallion twitched and pranced about the stable yard. He seemed to have regained his spirits and his boyish grin made Florence’s heart sing. Rather than alienating her, as he’d said he feared, his confidence last night had only deepened her fondness for him. But why Tristram had sworn her to secrecy over his adoption she could not imagine, other than from misplaced feelings of shame.

Men! thought Florence. From the cradle they were taught to hide their feelings, never to express their insecurities lest they betray a weakness that could be used against them. How refreshing it was to find a man so candid, so artless, she reflected. Was she falling in love once more? If she was, it was a surprise to find these kinds of feelings returning after so long. As a girl of seventeen, she had given her poet lover the very thing she should have guarded to the death, and she had sworn she would never fall for a man again. But there was something about Tristram that was so very enticing: his long, jodhpur-clad legs, the high, tight-fitting boots and, most of all, the burning, dark eyes that kindled all sorts of flames inside her. But did she want these flames kindled? She had not sought out this passion; rather, it had sought her — her emotions proving far stronger than her will power. She’d had no intention of loving like a woman again, but it seemed that after a few kisses she was a fool once more. Nature had proved that this was not her decision to make.

Shame about his ghastly family though, the kind of people — the uncle, anyway — whom she detested. His immediate family sounded more pleasant, but she was unsure when she would have the opportunity of meeting them. They lived on an estate in the north, close to the Scottish border.

If only she could tell Dody about the adoption. Florence knew her sister thought Tristram a bit of a frivolous dilettante and this knowledge would surely bathe him in a more favourable light — Dody always supported the underdog. Funny, but for some inexplicable reason Florence felt as if she should be asking for Dody’s permission to love again.

Her musings were shattered by the clopping hooves of a flea-bitten grey that was being dragged towards her over the cobbles by a junior groom.

Tristram smiled when he saw Florence’s pout. ‘What did you expect, Flo — Bucephalus?’

Florence looked around the stable yard at the other riders being hoisted onto enormous, glistening hunters. ‘He’s so small. He couldn’t jump a bale of hay, let alone a five-bar gate.’

Before she could voice another complaint, Tristram nodded to the groom to boost her aboard. With the reins between her fingers, she wrapped her right knee around the saddle’s pommel and slid her left foot into the single stirrup.

‘This is Speedy, twenty if he’s a day — an old schoolmaster who’ll look after you,’ Tristram said. ‘You’ve caught on quickly, Flo, but you still need more riding experience before you’ll be able to handle something really lively.’

‘But this thing looks like a seaside donkey! And I don’t see why I can’t ride astride like the men.’

‘Better add that clause to your suffragette constitution, then.’

She could not maintain her pout for long. He was mocking her and she rather enjoyed it.

‘It’s much harder to fall off riding side-saddle, Flo. Far better to put your feminist principles aside than tumble head over heels into a cow-pat.’

‘I wonder who’ll fall asleep first, me or Speedy?’ she mumbled.

‘Ha! You might well be surprised.’

Tristram urged his mount forward and Florence followed, joining the rest of the hunting party as they gathered for the stirrup cup outside the Hall.

‘The hounds!
’ The huntsmen roared their toast.

Florence pushed back her veil and took a sip of the delicious hot wine and spices handed to her from a silver tray by the butler, Mr Alistair. All around her the experienced riders laughed and joked. The senior male members of the hunt were resplendent in their pinks. The ladies and gentlemen, she and Tristram included, wore smart black jackets, and the juniors, tweed. On no account, Tristram explained, should Florence overtake any of the pink jackets when they were under way, or refer to the hounds as dogs, for to do either would be regarded as exceedingly poor form. Oh, and they were riding
to
hounds, not
with
hounds. So much to remember, she thought, and so trivial, really, in the scheme of things. She could not help rolling her eyes as Tristram continued with his etiquette lecture, repeating silently to herself Oscar Wilde’s witticism about hunting:
the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable.

Jolly good fun, though.

She noticed Tristram’s grandfather on a horse being led around the driveway on a long lead-rein held by a mounted Lady Fitzgibbon. Forgetting her manners, Florence gawped and whispered to Tristram, ‘Surely your grandfather is not coming with us? He’s practically blind!’

‘Oh, that’s all right, just as long as the horse can see,’ Tristram said nonchalantly. ‘You watch, he’ll probably be the most competent on the field. Aye-Aye really comes to life when he’s hunting.’

He would need to. So far Aye-Aye had been the living dead. How strange these people were, Florence thought: daring, tough and eccentric as they exercised their assumed God-given right to rule the land. Whether Tristram liked it or not, whether his adoption excused him or not, he was still very much one of them. He and she were poles apart. Could they really share a future together?

Florence put the silver cup back on the butler’s tray. She must cast all doubts aside and enjoy the day, and not think too far ahead. It wasn’t as if Tristram had even proposed yet.

She adjusted the veil over her bowler and fanned her riding habit over her jodhpurs. On Sir Desmond’s signal the pinks led the way, with the dogs – no, hounds — weaving their way between the long legs of the hunters, followed by the black jackets and the youngsters in tweeds, she and Tristram bringing up the rear.

They clattered down the carriageway beneath the monkey puzzle trees, fields on either side still covered with floating mist. A stag gave them a cursory glance then returned to his breakfast of hay with his harem, tails flicking across white rumps. Novel as the hunt was to Florence, this was nothing new to the deer; their forebears had watched this ritual being acted out for hundreds of years and they were probably relieved to no longer be involved as quarry.

‘We’re heading for a covert on the border of the seminary lands, near where we were digging yesterday,’ Tristram told her. ‘Foxes are often found there; we’re almost sure to flush one out.’

They ambled on, Speedy’s gait almost soporific. Whoever named him must have had a wicked sense of irony. The old schoolmaster seemed completely unaffected by Warrior’s startled shying at nothing and the way he champed at the bit, sending white foam flying.

Finally, as they approached the covert, Speedy’s ears pricked forward and his pace increased.

Ahead of them a horn sounded. At once Speedy reared onto his hind legs. Florence stifled a scream and fought to keep her balance.

‘Lean forward and wriggle the bit to pull his head down,’ Tristram shouted.

No sooner had she brought the horse back to earth than the horn sounded again.

‘Hang on, Flo, we’re off!’

Speedy lashed out a rear leg at Warrior’s head and then, before Florence could catch her breath, they were charging through the copse, following the hounds baying on the scent of fox. The trees passed by in a blur, twigs stung her face. Speedy seemed to be deliberately aiming for the low-hanging branches, and she had to duck and swivel to keep her seat and her head. A twig snatched away her veil.

Once out of the copse, Florence found herself careering down a grassy slope. She leaned back, as she had been taught. Ahead, one of the horses slipped on the sod. Its young rider was dumped to the ground, skidding for several yards before coming to a stop in a crumpled heap. Florence tried to pull Speedy up to make sure the child was all right, but the cob would have none of it. He lifted his head to evade the bit and continued on his charge toward an overgrown hedge at the bottom of the hill. As she overtook one of the pinks, she heard Sir Desmond yell to Tristram, ‘Keep that bloody woman under control!’

‘Follow the youngsters, Florence!’ Tristram called to her, pointing with his crop to a group of tweeds cautiously reconnoitring the hedge. For once Speedy obeyed the tug on his rein and they followed the junior members until they came to a low dip in the hedge over which they sailed. Florence clung on for dear life, forgetting all she had been taught as she flew through the air. She had not experienced such out-of-control terror since being pursued through the East End by a deranged killer. Never again would she go out of her way to find excitement, never again would she complain about a dull life. Please God, get me through this, she prayed. If you do I might even start going to church again.

Weak at the knees, the reins burning her hands through her gloves, she managed to slow Speedy enough to join up with the tweeds again as they made their way through a gap in a second, much higher, hedge. She turned at the sound of thundering hooves and pulled aside so that Aye-Aye and Lady Fitzgibbon could fit through the narrow space. It soon became obvious that that was not their intention.

As they galloped towards the highest part of the hedge, Lady Fitzgibbon cried out, ‘Four paces, Aye-Aye,’ to her father. He assumed the jumping position, and on the fourth stride they leaped into the air together, clearing the hedge in perfect synchronisation.

Tristram, straight legs rammed forward in the stirrups, back almost parallel with his horse’s, went one better and headed for the gate, whooping as Warrior’s hooves thudded to the ground on the other side. He pulled up in front of Florence after she made her way through the gap. His face was flushed and his breath left his mouth in clouds.

‘Come on, Flo, I’ll race you.’

‘Tristram, I’d rather not—’ But Florence had no say in the matter. Speedy had understood and chased after Warrior, charging his way up the hill.

A rushing stream bisected the slope, carving its way downwards. Tristram slowed his horse and called over his shoulder to Florence, ‘Jumping this should save some time. We have to catch up with the main hunt on the other side.’ He spurred his horse, easily clearing the water and the steep muddy bank on the far side.

Speedy did not give Florence time to catch her breath, let alone point out how it was all very well for Tristram when his horse was twice the size of hers. The little cob leaped like a gazelle, only to land smack in the middle of the stream. Stinging cold snatched Florence’s breath away as Speedy heaved himself through stirrup-high water. With her right leg welded to the pommel, she somehow managed to cling on. Nothing was going to detach her from that saddle.